


The Earl of Sandwich Was Kind of a Dick

by freneticfloetry



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Food Referenced In Wildly Unsanitary Contexts, Found Family, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well." — Virginia Woolf</i><br/> <br/>Or: Ichabod Crane, Unlikely Foodie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Earl of Sandwich Was Kind of a Dick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hllangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/gifts).



> This was Jossed almost immediately — in fact, I've pretty much cherry-picked from canon since about episode three — but I hope you enjoy it, anyway. :) Huge thanks to kristin for the beta.

In hindsight, it was probably a mistake to bring him.

Abbie is bruised and bone tired and barely knows the guy retiring, but her whole house is starting to think that she's lost her mind, so a little show of solidarity couldn't hurt.

Besides, a free meal is a free meal.

She's still not sure what made her swing by the motel, nod to the patrolmen on duty, and ask Ichabod Crane to dinner. Yet here they are, shoulder to shoulder, a basket of breadsticks between them.

Those had worked wonders when he'd had a look at the price list and she'd needed to shut him up quick.

He orders the first thing that's familiar, and when the waitress brings their plates and he takes a tentative bite, he turns to Abbie with wide eyes and a fork that could be used a weapon.

"You neglected to mention that we would be dining in the finest establishment available."

She blinks, mouth full of fettuccine. "I'm sorry?"

"My dish," he says. "The sauce contains basil, garlic, oregano, a delightful combination of spices completely foreign to your Chef Boyardee."

"Crane, just because it's better than SpaghettiOs does not make it fine dining."

He looks puzzled. "This is delicious."

"This is _the_ _Olive Garden_."

"Lieutenant." His face is grave, and he shifts further in his chair. "Do you mean to tell me that there exist, in this day and age, meals superior to the one which now sits before me?"

There must be someone in the world who can answer that question with something other than laughter, but Abbie Mills is not that person.

 

 

A week after the Olive Garden incident, when his curiosity has hit her credit card at every decent restaurant in town, she gives in and takes him to the grocery store.

He walks the aisles slowly, arms outstretched, looking equal parts delighted and disgusted.

"I see you've done away with the hunt and the harvest."

"No," she counters, "we've just made it big business. Nobody cares where it comes from, Crane. They only care about the convenience."

She lets him wander, then buys food enough for something simple, things he can make in the microwave and on the motel's hot plate. Bread. Bacon. Beans. Food he already knows.

When she picks him up the next morning, both hands have new burns and bandages, but he just grins and offers her breakfast.

 

 

They have grilled cheese for lunch one day, with three cheeses and fresh arugula and tiny slices of heirloom tomatoes _._  He tells her that the aioli has not turned out as expected. She tells him that she hasn't got the slightest clue what aioli even is.

"You couldn't make _coffee_ a month ago. Now you're making gourmet grilled cheese?"

"I have always possessed the _skill_ ," he says sharply. "I simply lacked the _means_."

Abbie holds up her hands. "I'm not doubting you. Feel free to tell me all about your previous life as a superchef, when the Earl of Sandwich was your BFF."

"One can only assume you are referring to the man for whom the dish is so eponymously named. As John Montagu lived a full century before I, we had no personal acquaintance. But I can assure you, according to tales passed on from his descendants, he was an incompetent, games-minded braggart, and all credit for the invention of the sandwich should be placed squarely with a page named Edward."

 

 

Case day, which means fast food. The way he's scowling down at his Taco Bell, no one will be running for the border anytime soon.

"Are you aware that the television sometimes presents instructional demonstrations on the art of cuisine?"

That one takes her a second to translate. "Yeah, PBS airs cooking shows some Sundays." She polishes off her burrito and wipes her hands on a napkin. "That's nothing. Cable has whole networks that play 'em twenty-four seven."

She can tell by the quirk of his eyebrow that she has made a terrible mistake.

 

 

Corbin's cabin has a full-sized stove _and_ satellite TV, which is the only thing that saves her sanity. The stove is in perfect working order. The pots and pans have seen better days.

His lip curls as he picks through the cookware. "Honestly," he says, "it's as if you expect us to live like animals."

"Says the man who learned to cook in a time when you had to skin things with your teeth."

He spends his entire month's stipend at Williams-Sonoma, then throws out every pack of Ramen in the house.

 

 

"What on _earth_ are you doing?"

He looks murderous. Which might just be a good thing, at the moment.

"Well it's some kind of prehistoric vampire, right? Vampires don't like garlic. I took a chance."

She ducks an incoming blow and ends up taking out his blender. He looks less than thrilled.

"That is premium black garlic, imported from Italy and fermented for a full _month._ How could it possibly be offensive to _anyone_?"

 

 

She'd been on the phone the first time she walked by, but now she stops to see what has him so engrossed.

"Crane."

He half turns to her, dazed and distracted. The hands on screen are fileting someone's liver.  

"You know this isn't a cooking show, right? It's a show about a serial-killing cannibal."

"Clearly," he answers, "but the plating is positively exquisite."

 

 

They're stranded in the middle of nowhere, she's just regained consciousness, and he's squinting thoughtfully at the remains of a Rugaru.

"If you think I am eating that thing," she says, climbing painfully to her feet, "I suggest you think again."

 

 

"I thought you hated Thanksgiving."

He sniffs. " _Hate_ is a gross exaggeration. I merely resent its inaccurate existence."

"Right." She walks along the table, taking it all in. "So what's with the spread?"

"I would hardly consider it such. Perhaps I was simply of a mood to prepare a turkey. And… other seasonally-appropriate accoutrements."

"Like a giant bowl of microwave mac and cheese."

He cringes. "Indeed."

"Which you think is _disgusting_ ," she says, nodding, "but happens to be a favorite of mine."

There's a pained sound that originates somewhere at the back of his throat. "It would seem so."

She tilts her head and crosses her arms. He can't seem to hold her eyes. "This doesn't make any sense. I can't tell a quiche from a soufflé, my palate is apparently shit, and I think everything is better after a trip to the deep fryer. I have _no idea_ why you keep cooking for me."

"Because, Lieutenant," he says, "I am a man unmoored. And as taking my meals with you has somehow granted me an anchor, I find myself with much to be thankful for."

 

 

He cooks. She eats. They occasionally kill things with various kitchen instruments.

For Christmas, she gives him an apron that reads "Head Chef."

For once, he actually gets the joke.


End file.
